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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24416086">of strays &amp; losing dogs</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunfleurs/pseuds/sunfleurs'>sunfleurs</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>of strays &amp; losing dogs [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Samurai Champloo</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Flashbacks, Grief/Mourning, Implied Character Death, Jin is Jin, Older Characters, Other, Platonic Relationships, Some Fluff, Tragedy, Trio Dynamic, and whatever else u want, i love my sweet fuu, language because mugen, mentions and depictions of violence, mugen is mugen, post-epilogue, theyre trying their best</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 06:07:59</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>8,414</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24416086</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunfleurs/pseuds/sunfleurs</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s really funny, he thinks. It’s been two years, now nearing three, and they meet once again in a tiny teahouse in a very hole-in-the-wall type village.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Jin/Kasumi Fuu/Mugen</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>of strays &amp; losing dogs [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1765612</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>24</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. some flowers</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>guilt is perhaps the most painful companion of death,  coco chanel.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It’s really funny, he thinks. It’s been two years, now nearing three and they meet once again in a tiny teahouse in a very hole-in-the-wall type village. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>There’s a clear attempt being made to keep the teahouse from looking as shabby as it was. There were colorful banners posted on the low-level walls, trying to mask the vines that’d found their way inside the structure. Tiny glass cups, filled with freshly-cut flowers and their pastel glow accompanied with the sweet smell brings forth the image of her doe eyes and warm smile. There are the first signs of withering and wilt, though. Silky petals curling inwards as if to hide from the sun; baby leaves streaked brown as if welcoming autumn. A stem, drooping over the rim of the glass. </p>
<p>Mugen does this a lot, even after all this time. He finds trinkets that remind him of the waitress or the ronin. Trinkets that could fit in the palm of his hand or somewhere inside his shirt, close to him. He sees traces of them in all the villages he’s drifted through, in the trees he’s slept under, by the freeing riverside, in paintings, the hilt of someone’s sword or the color of someone’s robes. <em> Hell </em>, even in the booze he drinks. It’s starting to feel like a disease he can’t quite get rid of and it seems like all their talks about fate and whatnot had been bullshit. Sure, after their departure they came across each other in the same villages, over and over again. Perhaps it was too generous of a gift, something he hadn’t appreciated enough and something they laughed at when they found each other. Something must’ve happened along the way for this permanence to set in.  </p>
<p>And to think, someone like him, had gotten used to not being on his own. He could not admit it to anyone, not even himself, that those two idiots had provided some sort of comfort while he’d been by their side. It felt like a cool breeze, by the oceanside, running over and freeing him from the confines that’ve held him back. A chilling touch from the sea, when your feet are crushing through bits of sand and pebbles, and the shy waves circle your ankles and beckon you to come near. It’d been a temporary feeling, came to him shortly and left quickly. He’s become used to this, has believed permanence to be a restrictor for many years. Something which held him in place and controlled him--Mugen was not one to be controlled. He wasn’t bound to anything. </p>
<p>When the waitress taps his shoulder, he expects to find himself faced with deep eyes that swirl like molasses, pink cheeks, and a plush nose. He finds nothing of the sort. The woman is extremely tall and slender, features bony, unwelcoming, and sharp. Her lashes are thin and she has bland disinterest in her eyes, a tired mouth, weak shoulders. Mugen doesn’t waste her time, mumbles his order as if it’s too embarrassing to voice with his usual suaveness. </p>
<p>He isn’t a tea drinker. This is just a way to commemorate those shitheads, to remind himself of where they’d met, and oftentimes, in hope to find a familiar, clumsy waitress. Or Jin, for that matter. He seems like the kind of person who you’d find in a nice teahouse instead of at a bar or a brothel. His pride probably allows it or something like that. </p>
<p>The universe must have heard him and his convoluted yearning.</p>
<p>A light zephyr floods the teahouse, twirling the flowers and making the banners rise and fall calmly. The typical, indigo haori making its appearance--<em> indigo, </em> the color he’s awaited for in crowds--and the inky hair, the spectacles, the katana. It’s <em> him. </em>Mugen snorts and Jin recognizes him with a still look, turning his head so quickly a light glimmers against his glasses. </p>
<p>“Well, whaddya know?” Mugen, certainly amused by this great coincidence, kneads his chin with his thumb and forefinger, a lopsided grin inching on his face. Jin takes a seat across from the pirate—with grace that hasn’t been worn down over the years—and seems to eye Mugen for a silent moment. His ebony eyes catching onto the three scarred lines on his right cheek, the pigment seeming to have lightened since they had last seen one another. They have both acquired some leanness over the years, aged into fine young men. Mugen’s scruff is the same and he has a few more ear piercings, which is expected. Jin’s hair is longer, softer and he has silver around his neck. A small ring at the end of it, sheltered by the folds of his haori. </p>
<p>“‘Nd I thought yer ass had died,” Mugen leans back in his seat, inciting a low hum from the wood. The wide grin doesn’t budge from his face and the faint glint in Jin’s eyes seems to be his own expression of joy. </p>
<p>As always, Jin has few words to say. His attention steers towards the small glass cup in the corner of Mugen’s table with the rich flowers and frail stems. The ronin admires the plants for a while, mouth held firmly, and Mugen can imagine the memory it has rekindled--what he is thinking about. <em> Who, </em>he is thinking about. </p>
<p>“I have been looking for you.”</p>
<p>Mugen straightens, as if to be called to attention. He feels insulted by this, narrows his eyes and lets a displeased look settle onto his face. </p>
<p>“Yea, yea, cut the centimeter shit,” he flings at the man cruelly as a sick inkling settles in the pit of his stomach. This is the reunion he has considered so nonchalantly, late at night. The scene that’d reeled into his mind in a brief interval, something he shook off and cursed at. It is as expected: Mugen not being able to express the meshed emotions erupting all at once and Jin, seeming all too poised and having a reminiscent look in his eyes, silent but empathetic. There is just one thing missing… a rather important thing. </p>
<p>“I wasn’t being sentimental.” Jin breathes, posture stiff as a board, but he falters for a moment, as if it weren’t completely true. For some time, he’d expected that Mugen would change. Jin had an overflowing amount of time to reflect on their journey, their time together, and he had noticed the many ways Mugen had grown. He had a standoff with a conceited vagrant, ruthless and wild in every sense possible. He had bidded farewell to a vagrant, who’d expressed some vulnerability with his companions. The wilder parts of him, the darkness he couldn’t shake off, the fiery rage in his heart and in his metallic eyes had simmered. Jin believed Mugen would take advantage of this gift he’d been given, learn to become grounded and open, perhaps. It was too much to ask and unrealistic. He could not speak for Mugen, but Jin himself had learned to appreciate things he did not see before. </p>
<p>“Have ya heard anything?” Mugen’s tone is calm, undemanding, and his stare is something unrecognizable. Jin ponders for a moment and then, he understands. His shoulders sink, eyes still cold, but his mouth gripped tight. Like he is trying to keep his visage together, keep this cool look and Mugen notices. </p>
<p>“That is why I have been searching for you,” he begins, fixing his pitless eyes to those which know no bounds and pauses, noting the quirk to Mugen’s brow. Jin can hear white noise, crawling from his stomach to his throat, clawing and clawing. His trained hands grip the fabric of his hakama as if for leverage, his knuckles turning white under the table, where Mugen cannot see. </p>
<p>“Fuu is dead.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>idk if anyone will read this, but after watching the series i really wanted to write about the gang's reunion after some years. if it wasn't clear in my writing, the trio run into each other multiple times immediately after their separation (similar as what's seen in the show) but eventually their paths separate and they do not see each other. it makes me sad that this fandom is not as active as it used to be, but i'll probably continue this series because of my ideas and how i want to dive deeper into the mindset of a grieving mugen and jin. they are such complex characters, i hope i wrote them well. i will include some flashbacks and also describe their new lives in more detail in future chapters--until then, enjoy :-)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. a teahouse</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Mugen and Jin have a score to settle.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>mentions and depictions of violence are included in the following chapter.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>
    <span>Fuu is dead.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>With the speed of a pinwheel turning in the wind, Mugen’s eyes become strict and unforgiving. An unexpected sound escapes his throat and he reaches for the table, nails cracking against the already-chipped wood. There’s an eruption in his pupils, Jin sees. A burning, a heartless look which could have only been predicted in the moment. An inhumane flash of light that would frighten any other man. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What… What the fuck are you talkin’ about?” He menacingly tears this place apart in his mind, thinks about how fast he could angle his hand over his head, unleash his sword, swipe across each face and have it pour out with blood, the wood that’d crumble under his foot, the walls tottering, the flowers wilting. Blinded with confusion and rage, Mugen doesn’t register the somber delicacy in Jin’s face, almost shielded by the ray of sunlight darting through the window, reflecting onto his glasses.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Talk, dammit!” His fist soars down like a lighted hammer, making the table whine and creak, the glass shudder, and the occupants of the teahouse fall silent. It takes a second or two, but they fall back in line with their conversations, returning to their original state as simple as that. There are splinters hiding under Mugen’s skin, poking and coursing the heel of his palm. He doesn’t notice it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jin is completely focused on Mugen, the rise and fall of his shoulders, the clench of his jaw, the rattled breath sweeping across the table. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Hm, </span>
  </em>
  <span>he’d expected this to some extent. The vagrant’s skill had always been the art of being unpredictable and here he was, being just that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The man, more composed in comparison to his alternate, releases the hamaka from his tight grip, blood rushing throughout his fingers. He straightens himself and tries the situation he’d surmised whilst trying to track Mugen. He did not look forward to it, his instincts drew him to the vision of the reaction, not so much the explanation. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>During his search for Mugen, Jin had spent long, sleepless nights, critiquing the story he’d heard and burdening himself with the weight of the loss. It was relieving, to be able to share the burden. To lessen some of his faults, to accept the practicality that he was somewhere else while Fuu needed their help. Guilt was an endless cycle, he’d realized this after his sensei had died. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I was resting in a village, after travelling along </span>
  <span>Tōkaidō</span>
  <span>. There were a group of men, who worked in the market of the village and they asked me if I had ever been to a bathhouse,” Jin pauses, exasperated, “I had never heard of such a thing, but apparently they’d become popular, especially in finer places. Edo, was known for having a large bathhouse and the work was ideal for most.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jin can tell Mugen’s impatience is growing into a dangerous high from the way his fist is clenched and the ravenous rage in the subspace of his eyes but he continues, with precision and steadiness. Jin is still grieving. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There were many wealthy customers who attended the bathhouse and oftentimes it led to them preferring a </span>
  <em>
    <span>yuna</span>
  </em>
  <span> worker. They told me that there was a travelling woman who worked there—who’d seen everything and done everything. She told her customers stories about her journeys and they spread far from the bathhouse,” Jin wavered, “it did not take long before someone realized who she was, who her father was. I suppose from her stories they understood her identity and because of this she was—”</span>
</p><p><span>“Shut the hell up,” Mugen spat, “I don’t believe it, that dumb broad</span><em><span>. </span></em><span>After everything—she gets caught</span> <span>at a bathhouse?” It’s unbelievable, even Mugen is more cautious than this, even he knows they are wanted for wrecking havoc through a number of villages and killing so many people in the process. And it was all for </span><em><span>her. </span></em><span>How could she have been so stupid? </span></p><p>
  <span>In the subspace of his mind, he knows he’s being cruel and tarnishing the image of the girl. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He makes an animalistic type of sound, gritting his teeth and closing his eyes. Her skin falls before him, now blue and limp, eyes without life and completely drained of all the soft color she’d been graced with. His rage is endless and so is his blame. It’s as if every emotion in the world has blended into one giant wave, mountaining above his head and rumbling with great intensity. </span>
  <em>
    <span>That bitch. That </span>
  </em>
  <span>stupid</span>
  <em>
    <span> bitch, she should have known better.  </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“You don’t mean that. You don’t know what she had been going through, you don’t know what they did to her.” Jin’s empathy drops and he’s ambushed with agitation, alongside anger and defeat. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mugen’s razorblade expression is confronting Jin and this is so unbelievable. Them, reuniting in a teahouse. Teahouses, which had become landmarks in their lives, places they intentionally walked into so there would be a chance. The one time their fates unfold and intertwine again, it is at a teahouse but Fuu is gone. She’d been at a bathhouse instead. Now, probably at the bottom of a pit or the ocean, wilting to death.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And you do?” Mugen says, somehow able to find some restraint on the words that are close to tumbling out of his bitter mouth. Jin is still again, seeming to be so unmovable and </span>
  <em>
    <span>everything. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Mugen wants to holler. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The way they ended her life, Mugen, is what has kept me up for countless nights,” He hisses, expressing anger which he isn’t known for, “It’s awful knowing Fuu’s final moments were filled with horrible agony and I cannot stand the idea of it having happened to a friend.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This dread that Mugen does not want to admit, his own agony he doesn’t want to fall into is capturing him in a tight clasp, limb by limb. He slips away from the table, back nudged against his chair, and left with all the phrases he could have said in a moment. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Regret, is not a word that could have been applied to him. He did and said what he wanted to on his own terms, everything orchestrated by his willpower and sheer effort. He regretted parting ways, though. It had not seemed like such a significant change at first, but it was clear to him, now more than ever, that this cruel world had given them a chance, given them signs that they were tied to each other. Their fates interlocked at one point, proposing the idea they were meant to meet, but the clasp had been shattered by this. Fuu, dying. Fuu, who’d never done anything half as bad as he—had saved someone as worthless as he—was gone, forever. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why’ve you been looking for me?” Mugen folds his arms over his chest, leaning a cheek against his shoulder while his heavy eyes stare out into the village that lies past the windowsill. There are children running down the street, laughing in a high pitch, arms angled to the sky with pink and yellow pinwheels in their hands. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I want to avenge her. I want to find the person who did this,” Jin plainly states and he mutes the subconscious of his mind that cautions him, tells him the pirate’s mind will not be so easily convinced. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Together. We should do this together,” and as the words form in the air he remembers a time when Mugen told him, </span>
  <em>
    <span>you can’t just make somebody’s mind up for them. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>The slender waitress returns, a single tray balanced in one, bony hand. She sets the porcelain cup in front of Mugen, the tea sloshing around rigorously. Jin blinks, viewing the familiar color of jasmine tea with subtle surprise. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can I get you something, sir?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jin finds himself picking apart the woman’s attire, comparing her emerald yukata to that of Fuu’s. The peachy pink, with white flowers entailed within the course fabric. The yukata she’d clumped to her waist, kicking her small feet in a flow of cold seawater. Mugen recalls this memory too. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, I’ll have the same as him,” the ronin finally details and there’s something unusual being balanced between the two swordsman. The waitress nods her head and steers away from the creaking table. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Silence absorbs them and perhaps they are both walking through their journey again, in that long summer that didn’t seem to be long enough. Jin allows Mugen’s contemplative state to continue or whatever seems to be spinning inside his head. For some time, he has been paralyzed by the brittle thought that without Fuu, they would never have met. They would be different people. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>No, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Jin mimes behind his brow, </span>
  <em>
    <span>We would be dead. </span>
  </em>
  <span>He could envision crossing Mugen on the street and then slashing away at each other until their wrists became too sore to move or until they had successfully killed one another. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re sure?” Mugen interrupts Jin’s thinking and he cannot figure out what it’s regarding. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She's gone?” He’s hollow. Jin mirrors the mood, one which resembles a parasite which has been feasting on him since he’d heard. He cannot shake the endlessness in Mugen’s inspection, awaiting some sort of confirmation. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jin nods his head and lets his eyes wander to the flowers. Through his peripheral, he can see Mugen’s tan fingers holding the teacup tightly and the sharp breath he sucks in. Will the man shatter before the glass? Jin avoids the question. He picks apart each petal with his resentful stare and suddenly, he is back at the foul market, hearing the story for the first time. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He remembers hearing how her hair</span>
  <span>pins with their fragile red beads had been used to impale her and later, been kept as an ornament. A reminder to those whoever resided in or passed by Edo what would happen if they were caught worshipping a crucified man. Jin remembers an awful rush lurking across his spine, causing him to be nauseous and entirely estranged. He remembers reaching for the hilt of his katana, then wavering because—what was he going to do? Kill them in a fit of blinding fury? </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>No. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>A teacup clinks against the wooden platform, in front of Jin. He thanks the waitress and for once, they have and give the money to pay for the luxury. A lot has changed, this is clear to him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m in,” Mugen declares, in spite of Jin having lost hope momentarily. The ronin makes a </span>
  <em>
    <span>hmm </span>
  </em>
  <span>sound, nodding his head once, shortly. They pick up the small porcelain glass, babied against the expanse of their calloused hands. The rim of one cup clashes against another and they honor Fuu. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They sip tea and think of their friend with her pink yukata, her caring hands, her endless whining, her void of a stomach, her gracious smile, and her wit which had brought them together. </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>more pieces of the story are yet to come together, so don't worry if it feels like some things are missing! thank uuu</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. a mountaintop</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p><i> if i should lose you, leaves would wither and die <i></i></i><br/>— nina simone.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Jin has a netted sack hanging from his waist, occasionally patting the side of his leg and he’s gotten used to the sound it raises, tying it to the other rhythms the evening has brought forth. There might be a canary or two singing to one another, the distant hum of some insect, and sometimes a rickshaw’s wheel drifting through a light puddle. The lemon sun has phased into a dark peach, painting ripples along the skyline as it inches downwards for the horizon. Markets have closed for the day, servers are lining cups onto wooden counters, and lanterns are being prepared to be lighted. The nightlife is being beckoned forward, but from the looks of the villagers and how sparse they are, it doesn’t promise to be lively.   </p>
<p>Jin has spent the entirety of his day scrounging up supplies, food, cloth, <em> water. </em>He isn’t sure the length of this journey, doubts it’ll be longer than the one they had years back, but he’s come to the conclusion it’s far better to be prepared for the unexpected. He has exchanged novelties that he’s collected through various villages for coins or fruit. One of his bargains had gotten him a turnip shaped bottle—for water, it’ll come in handy. Everything else, they can manage. Mugen and Jin had presented a better tolerance when it came to unusual conditions. They were able to withstand the churning of their empty stomachs, the rawness of their throats, or the dirt gathered in pieces of their hair without much protest. Fuu, on the other hand, was peevish when it came to these things. Her feet would blister easily, she would hunch over from sheer hunger, and would fumble with her hair when it’d gotten dirty. She could hide her discomfort for a shy amount of time, before one of the two swordsmen would notice and take some sort of pity on her. </p>
<p>The straps to her geta would snap and Mugen would begrudgingly fix the loop when she wasn’t aware. Jin would be chivalrous, offering to carry her the remainder of the way and she’d only let him do so a handful of times. They excused her nimble tolerance to her age. Now, Jin thinks the complaints they’d gritted their teeth at, knitted their brows upon hearing, would be something they’d reminisce over. </p>
<p>He passes by a young girl carrying a small paper box and a syrupy scent whirls from the lid; it flutters open—a sliver generous enough to give him a peek as he’s walking by—and it reveals a batch of cakes colored butterscotch.</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>The sun has settled. Settled in a bay between far-off mountains and some woodland which pickets the base of the rigid landscape. Mugen thinks he’s seen a painting of this place before, this exact spot, with the strands of wheat and cluttered milkweeds. He could have been the painter, perched up on this abandoned barrel, eyeing the same terrain that’s panned-out for him. Alas, his hands hadn’t been crafted to hold a paintbrush, but rather its more menacing opponent.</p>
<p>Mugen isn’t sure how long he’s been eyeing the horizon, it could be a couple hours or so. For a moment, he’d been absorbed by the phenomena of the trees jittering, the clouds waving, a mirage he’d presumed the gleaming sun had induced. A while later, he’d found himself feeling rather lost and distant, felt as if someone were burrowing a hole into his stomach. It was a binding pain, some sort of ache he hadn’t felt. In a ways, it was worse than the plunge of a dagger to your side and in others, it was fragile and fleeting like the tip of a sword nicking your cheek. </p>
<p>Mugen subconsciously touches his face with soiled fingers, across the three marks that’d slashed his face two years ago. How can someone have memories including a monumental person and then, have that person become a memory? In a fragile instant, the realms of physicality are broken, and the soul is nothing but a whisper. All that remains of Fuu are the words she’d said, the looks she’d given them, and fragments of her nestled in Jin and Mugen’s mind. She was nothing but a memory now, she would only stay alive in their memories. And dreams, he supposes.</p>
<p>This is different, he’s come to realize. The cutout of Fuu, now completely empty and nothing more than a vessel, was painful to see and managed to pour boiling rage into him. He has tried, time and time again, to push down the thought of her and Jin. It results in complete failure, he can’t get rid of them. Not entirely. Mugen thinks Fuu had been some sort of burden at first, thought whatever higher power existed was having a kick outta making him suffer through a painfully long journey in search of a samurai who smelt of sunflowers. He thought he was being punished for all the awful things he’d done, all the people he’d killed, the things he’d stolen, the people he’d left behind. By the time he’d realized the journey and his companions had been a gift, it was too late. </p>
<p>The sun slips above the head of each tree leaf, daggering into his eyes and he has to hold a lazy hand above his brow to shield the light from blinding him. Everything has lost its touch, its nurturing grace. When the branches sway in the breeze, as if to wave, there isn’t a freeing feeling settling itself onto his chest. When the prairie ahead lights up with milkweeds and sticks of wheat, nobody comes to mind. The sun will dip down, behind the brink of the mountain, just like it would any other day. It didn’t matter if he had been sitting up to watch it or not, if he existed at all. The world would continue without him and for once, it’s a conjecture that puzzles him. </p>
<p>Humans, they really are specks of dust wandering the Earth. Up above, they’re unnoticeable and here, they’re wandering aimlessly. At least, that is what he thinks. And then, down below, it doesn’t really matter because they’ll be lined with maggots and become a part of the Earth. Like they hadn’t really been there in the first place. </p>
<p>He’s become cynical, right when he thought he was getting better. Mugen scratches his knee, thinking if he were a painter instead of a killer he could probably find some sort of adoration for anything that existed in this world he hated. If he were a painter, he’d see that mountain with some sort of hope in his eyes and could admire the slopes which have built it into the looming structure that it is. If his cruel gaze had been softened into the eye of an artist, he would be able to look upon the mountain and envision Fuu there. She’d be tucked away in some rigid cave, enveloped by rocky walls, and she’d be grumbling about the pebbles poking into her back when she slept. She’d have a cracking fire ambering her silhouette and a tired, but content smile on her face. She’d be safe. He wouldn’t see her, but he’d know she was safe. </p>
<p>Again, fate hasn’t intended for him to become a gentle, alluring artist. He’d been born to view the world with a cold and distant air in his eyes, to understand the world for what it really is. He would only be able to envision an illuminating world, a more innocent universe, in his dreams. A caring world could only be that. A dream. </p>
<p>Naivety is an awful killer and an even worse disease. </p>
<p>Mugen rises to his feet, dirt crunching underneath his getas, and he spits on a clump of weed. He walks past a string of hanging clothing, dancing like flags in the wind. He reaches the normal line of markets and shops, drifts by a pinwheel stand, and watches a concubine post up lanterns alongside the ledge of her roof. </p>
<p>Idly, he reaches into his haori and his hand clumps around a sparse clutter of coins. He could drink himself to a pitch black tonight, have Jin find him sleeping in an alleyway or something convenient. He could find company at a pub, distract his mind and maybe even be able to enjoy the comfort of a blanket. One last time, he figures, before they begin their months of sleeping on damp dirt and hard shrine floors. </p>
<p>Somewhere along his way of walking down a brittle path, he finds that he can see the mountaintop from above the shingles of a bookstore. The sun, only pictured in a thin sliver, has cradled itself far below the horizon. It has its way of rummaging through the distant memories Mugen is trying to disassociate from. He hopes to himself, quietly, that in a short amount of time he’ll forget about Fuu altogether and won’t have to witness a hole being carved out of him; a void being created for him. </p>
<p>He must have subconsciously nailed his getas to the road. Someone walks right into him and grits their teeth, barks at him to watch where <em> he’s </em>going and Mugen sees this as an opportunity he should take advantage of. Booze and comfort, might cost a little money. Hitting guys over the head, cutting them, taking their coins—that’s all free. It’s a calling, he takes it. </p>
<p>A wolf-like grin graces his lips and his hand reaches up for the hilt of his sword, all in one blink. Something latches onto his wrist, prevents him from swiping down a clean blow. He looks over his shoulder and Jin has found him. The irritated man takes advantage of this opportunity, shuffling past them and makes an incomprehensible comment under his breath. </p>
<p>Mugen flicks his hand away from Jin’s grip, wondering what could possibly be holding him back from killing <em> this </em>old bastard. In reality, there’s no sentiment between them. Not anymore. It’s clear to Mugen that he’s not bound to an agreement. He could rewind two years time, pretend he’s the same, kill Jin like he’d originally planned. </p>
<p>It would be a betrayal, to the both of them. To <em> her </em> and he knows this. The thirst for blood is replaced by his yearning for booze. Today has been the longest day of his life, he hasn’t had a day like this for years and years. He feels as if someone had beat the shit out of him, lugged him through dirt and rock, pinched his skin into blisters. It’s like a parasite has found its way to him, a parasite which had been brought by Jin. Mugen knows what it really is. </p>
<p>“I ain’t gonna start this thing sober,” he grumbles, fully intending to argue with him about it. To his surprise, Jin doesn’t express a rebuttal and doesn’t chide him for considering his wants during this taxing time. He offers to go with him and they end up drinking together. </p>
<p>It is a scene all too familiar. They are still the same people they used to be, in some ways. Jin is still a lightweight, has the same habit of becoming drowsy and painfully silent. Mugen, is getting to that point. He’s a little foul, though. He lowers his head and explains to Jin in an attempted whisper all the things he’s done in the span of two years. He reminds him in a week or so it’ll be three and that would mean they’ve been on their own for <em> three </em>years. Jin perks up at this, a sly finger twirling the silver around his neck and the conversation nears Shino.</p>
<p><em> Who’s she again? </em> Mugen inquires and stops the ronin before he answers, <em> Ah, your main squeeze. I remember now. </em>He almost remembers it too well. It’d been a week of rain, of whispers, and sumo beetles. Eels, too. </p>
<p>“I wonder what girlie’s up to,” Mugen sneers, recalling the face of defeat he’d been able to incite from her, after she’d seen the gold he’d received for his antics. </p>
<p>They are quiet for a while. There’s a melody of glass cups being clamped onto wooden tables, of men with boisterous laughter, and of sake sloshing to and fro in cracking jugs. Of staring up and seeing cherry-red beads lining the oak structure, of white flowers on paper lanterns, and seeing loose-fitting yukatas everywhere, but not the one they need. The clink of each cup hitting wood grows louder as Mugen realizes what he has done.  </p>
<p>So when Jin asks him if he has found anything that might be of use to them, Mugen bites his tongue and stays silent in fear that the words that’ll come from his mouth might be of Fuu and how she’s nowhere at all—that in this entire world, she is nowhere to be found. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>sorry if this seems like a filler, i just wanted to delve deeper into the idea of guilt/grief while the boys are still resting. i hope mugen’s brooding didn’t seem too out of the ordinary, i feel like his need for solitude let’s his mind wander to all kinds of places. the next few chapters will focus more on the boys’ journey and some flashbacks!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. when things change</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>They come face-to-face with the boundaries between life and death, past and present.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>
  <i> tw: depictions of gore &amp; death, mentions of suicide </i>
</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It may have been the first time they’d been in a village and hadn’t incited <em> too </em> much violence. They left diligently, embraced by silence and contemplation. <em> It was sunny, </em>as one would say and their breakfast had consisted of nothing more than tea—it did little to soothe their hangover. </p><p>The night hadn’t been kind to them. They’d forgotten themselves, drank and drank until their faces had lighted up like roses and every color looked the same. Then, out of the blue, a young woman had appeared, poking at Mugen with agitation and annoyance. <em> I </em> knew <em> it was you, </em>she’d scoffed and neither of the swordsmen had been conscious enough to understand what she meant. Their obliviousness, especially Mugen’s, enraged her and one thing led to another. They had been kicked out when Mugen’s jaw had been knocked loose, and thought they’d been grateful for not having to pay for their drinks, their luck ran out when Jin lost his netted bag. They’d been too drunk to notice its absence. </p><p>Now, they are walking down a dirt path, only a practical distance from the village. To his surprise, Mugen already has dust collecting between his toes. They have a ways to go before they reach Edo--their first stop, the destination they’d discussed while drinking bitter tea--and in some ways, he is exhausted. The vow he’d made, to never speak nor think of the friend he’d left behind, would become increasingly harder to keep as they progressed on this path. Silence, nature, and <em> this. </em>It was enough to scrounge up timely memories, guiltful thoughts, and poke at the rising surge of contempt Mugen and Jin felt. </p><p>There’s a field of topics to pick from, a plethora of questions Mugen could cup and bombard the ronin with and combat the eerie silence. He could ask him of the bright scar dashing across his neck, the necklace, or even the conversations they’d left open-ended last night--if he could remember them, that is. Instead, the contemporary issue grabs hold of him, tricks him and he’s thinking about their fate again. </p><p>“So, y’know anything about this shithead?” Mugen asks, fed up by the tug of war that has pioneered his usually-carefree mind. Upon the wording, he notices his jaw is still sore and it twinges with the faintest bit of pain when he moves the muscle. </p><p>The events of last night have led them both to accept that though things may have changed, they are very much the same. Mugen has not changed and in some parallels, Jin hasn’t either. </p><p>“I am led to believe our target may be more than one person,” Jin is grateful for the conversation, for once. His mentality hasn’t been kind to him, especially since last night. He could not catch a wink of sleep and perhaps it was the ground beneath him being too firm instead of his visualizations of her and what she’d do if she were here; Fuu would have scolded them for being so irresponsible with their money, for getting drunk, letting their guard down, and having their supplies swept away. </p><p>When they both groaned at their hefty headaches, Jin thought of her. When they were drinking earl gray, talking about Edo, he could only think of her. In the silence, with the occasional crunch of the dirt and the skidding of a pebble, he could hear her sandals dabbing against the ground and feel her trailing behind them. She was everywhere and nowhere at all. </p><p>But Mugen, he is there. He’s real and though they had been adversaries from the start, had once vowed to slay one another, there was a sort of comfort between them. Was it more than the concept of them wielding a sharp weapon or having lost a cherished friend--Jin did not feed into the dilemma. He carried on and allowed himself to bled into Mugen.</p><p>“We talkin’ four or five mofos? Er somethin’...yakuza-ish?” </p><p>Jin huffs at Mugen’s poor choice of wording, hoping it will not come back to haunt them. </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>For the last two years Mugen had been between the land and the sea. He’d fought against tenacious tides, had seen himself shackled and beaten, thrown between ships, walked until he’d thought he’d reached his deathbed—stranded in the middle of some woodland and it had been such a familiar scene. He’d found himself in corners of Japan he didn’t think existed, places that were dirt-poor and inhumane, places lavish and romantic, places he wished he’d never seen. </p><p>Mugen had lost pieces of himself in those villages, those killer-streets and alluring festivals. He was yearning for something and it was pinching him, tearing his skin open and sanding him into someone he could not recognize. He would look up at the sky, wherever he would be, and he’d ground himself. He’d have to.</p><p>In some ways, it reminds him of who he is. </p><p>He is human. Under all the ruggedness and <em> I-don’t-give-a-shits, </em>he is unbelievably human. The past would root itself in his gut and he would have a hard time ripping the weed out. There was a time when he’d been passing through a market, thought a dead woman lying in the street was Koza. Another time, when he’d been at sea, heaving his final breaths and surrounded by a mass of rogue pirates—he thought he could hear someone calling him. </p><p>He is losing his damn mind. </p><p>Next to Jin again, Mugen feels different. He has changed, hasn’t he? Who wouldn’t? After so long… To him, Jin was the same. Parts of him entailed a new story. A tale had toyed with the ronin some time ago, but Mugen figured it was best not to ask. He was burdened with enough stories, he did not need Jin’s. </p><p>The day is nearing an end, their footsteps heavier than before, the moon glowing brighter than it had been a fragile moment ago. They are pushing through an upsetting patch of wheat, with hunched stems and gray auras. There are long vines flicking them in the forehead, large roots poking out from the dirt, and Mugen almost loses his footing thanks to a tree stump. </p><p>A gloomy shed comes into view. The wood is old and rotten, the structure just as wilted as the plats of wheat. Their interest piques and they both pursue the shed, walking steadily but with some weight in their footing. </p><p>An awful stench brews as they near it and Mugen is quick to wrinkle his nose. Something rustles in the broken strands of wheat and flutters through weeping vines. He’s quick to reach for the hilt of his blade. </p><p>Mugen steers around to view the dying vale of wheat and Jin pushes a creaky door open. Jin makes a weak sound. </p><p>Mugen forgets about whatever is lurking through the shadows, reasons it to be some critter or animal, and returns his attention to the shed. The door, almost detached from the weak hinges, is wide open and there is something dark, something small lying in the middle of the sheltered area. There are rusty tools pushed against the wooden-boards and with the decaying odor there is a smell of rain and dry soil. </p><p>“Is that…?” </p><p>Mugen’s eyes fall onto the tattered cloth folding around the figure. He recognizes the delicate outline of limbs while thin rays of moonlight slip through the wooden cracks--it’s an old woman. What’s left of her, anyway. The face is entirely hollow and colorless, with open flesh wounds and blood drying out. </p><p>Jin sighs softly, a loose hand draped over his tanto. He leaves the gory sight behind him, getas crunching on a nest of weeds. Mugen catches sight of the maggots, the home they’ve pieced for themselves in the cold nooks of a dead body. He kicks a pebble and it rests near what he thinks is the calf. The foot is gone. </p><p>There were no homes nearby, from what they could tell. There were no farms, no people. Not near. Trees and shrubs, leaves and weeds, insects chirping, they were boundless and everywhere. The old woman had died in the company of some shed, some wheat. </p><p>“Animal must’ve gotten her,” Mugen grunts wryly. He looks over the heads of drooping wheat and there are black dots floating through the air, darting past his ear. </p><p>Jin is frozen in the middle of wilted and broken straws, his back facing him. Mugen, at first, believes the ronin has found a discarded part of the old lady or someone else, another victim. Maybe even the critter Mugen had heard earlier. </p><p>He sees the right hill of Jin’s shoulder jutting up, tight. His pale hand gripping the hilt of his tanto and he hears the repetitive clatter of the steel. Mugen’s never seen him like this. Has anyone seen him like this? </p><p>He raises a brow at the sight, says, “Old corpse got ya rattled?” </p><p>They’ve sliced and diced through their share of people, they’ve managed worse. They've seen worse—<em> Jin </em> has seen worse. His shoulder doesn’t relax, his knuckles don’t ease. Mugen has a hunch that this isn’t about seeing a mangled old woman ridden with flesh-eating bugs. Mugen knows what he’s thinking. </p><p>Jin never told him how Fuu had been killed. He hadn’t asked, Jin saved him from the details. </p><p>“So, ya gonna act like this every time we see a dead body?” His red haori clashes with the indigo sleeve. The heel of his sandal breaks the head of an already-brittle grain and his eyes scour bark and tall shrubs shadowed by the shade of leaves. </p><p>Perhaps the creature he’d sensed earlier could be their dinner.</p><p>There’s a sparkle in-between some tree leaves. It’s there in a flash, gone in an instant. Could be the trick of the light, but he’s too smart for that. Or it could have been one of those glowing bugs, but it’s unlikely. A draft picks up the branches and sways the leaves back. It sweeps across his forehead, pulls a grimace from him. They are being watched—followed? </p><p><em> Good</em>, Mugen thinks. This is what he needs. To settle the rage, whatever feeling is curdling itself in the pit of his gut. </p><p>“I was just thinking…” Jin’s voice—so soft and small it almost makes Mugen flinch—cuts through his adrenaline and his temper deafens into a murmur. Mugen reluctantly faces the ronin, sword sheathed but he is prepared to jump into action if the woodland ghost decides to pounce.</p><p>Jin is a stranger. He is anguished by the thoughts rocking inside his mind like a ship caught between the drum of rain and the waves of a wild sea. The moon graces the deep scowl on his pale face, the twitch in his brown, and he is wincing at a memory. An idea. </p><p>He says something unlike him. Something which almost pulls a wince from Mugen. The chirping of crickets, the light zephyrs, and the distant eye become white noise. They are shunted miles away and Mugen begins to contemplate what he could say to lessen this burden. Jin, who was reserved and collected, quiet, steady and impassive. Now, poisoned with a bleeding heart. </p><p>This is not the ronin he had met those years ago, not the ronin he had seen. Mugen pities him, mourns with him because these lost years have softened them. They are without.</p><p>“My duty was to protect Fuu.” </p><p>The burden was shared, but Mugen figured Jin would handle her absence differently. In a corner of his mind, a place he wouldn’t dwell in, he knew Jin’s burden was killing him. She had always been keen to him, had always confided in him and admired him. Of course, of course her death would change him. He felt failure, dishonor in her fate and to some extent, Mugen could understand this reaction. He does not accept it, though. Jin is beyond this, beyond some girl and self-pity entirely. If he could grab him, shake him, he would. </p><p> </p><p>( <em> He’s seen it before. In Ryukyu, when he was barely two feet tall. The clouds were large and heavy, a fog beginning to mist through the air. The island had its eeriness, its sense of all things rotten and inexhaustible. There was something coppery sticking to him through all the humidity and hints of rainfall. He could not breathe. It was the first time he’d seen it: death by one’s own hands. The blade was casted in their gut and there was blood dribbling down their shirt. They were holding the hilt of the knife, grip slipping. The blood was hilling over their knees, falling to their feet. Pattering like rain. </em> )</p><p> </p><p>Jin would not have that sort of fate. </p><p>“Good thing you’re not a samurai then,” Mugen grunts. The comment catches Jin by surprise, nudges him from his momentary sulking and he loosens the grip on his tanto. </p><p>“That code of honor shit? Ain't got nothin’ to do with you.” </p><p>The wind budges forward and rustles Mugen’s hair. Jin pictures him carefully, past the glint in his glasses, and the moonlight barely grazes the outline of the vagabond’s figure. It holds onto the sleeve of his haori weakly, but highlights the rim of his scars. <em> Does he think about it? </em> </p><p>Something inside Jin is falling, collecting fire and crashing into the pit of his stomach at an alarming speed. Is he dying? His chest is curling, a tear ripping open his heart. Their last battle, he thinks about it. He dives into the memory head first and wonders if Mugen thinks about it as much as he does. He stares at the three lines on the man’s face, finds Fuu lingering there and he asks himself again, <em> does he think about?  </em></p><p>Mugen is talking and the words are fading fast. Jin, trying to find them. Like they’re melting in the dark, tracking back into the night.</p><p>“You were the one yappin’ about how we were gonna do this shit together. So let's finish it!” </p><p>The determination in his voice doesn't waver, he is the same Mugen. A wild, reckless man. The same stray dog. The emotion in his face is far from compassion, far from empathy. It’s entirely apathetic because he is Muge—always secluded, filled with contempt. His narrowed eyes, almost beaming garnet, are dimmed by the past. Jin has known, has always known. The blue tattoos on his wrists and ankles, his hollow stare, and the scars. They are just two men with sealed fates. They were tied to each other by a red band until it’d been cut. They had <em> only </em>been two men until she’d stumbled into their lives.   </p><p>“We’ll get girlie her peace or whatever and then you can shank yourself if you're still up for it.”</p><p>Jin wants to laugh and he nears it, the ends of his mouth twitch up and he almost accomplishes it. This will be another agreement, another promise. He’ll push through until Fuu has her peace. They will do this, together. They will finish this journey too. Perhaps Jin will take Mugen up on his previous offer, if it isn’t off the table. If Mugen still wanted to kill him. </p><p>“Alright,” Jin agrees and something unnoticeable settles in Mugen’s visage. He mutters, <em> Good, </em>under his breath and even though the woods are pitched, their stomachs clenching, mouths dry and eyes tired, they push through. </p><p>Small bugs—or maybe it’s just dirt and leaves floating through the gusty air—pat onto their haoris. They have become desensitized to any discomfort they could encounter on a summer night. They are walking on a shaky slope, with rocks that scrape against their wooden sandals. They can overcome anything, they have overcome the impossible before … </p><p>Jin returns to his habitual silence and Mugen doesn’t say anything when he steps ahead of him. There is something raking alongside the nape of his neck. Something sneaking around his waist and poking harshly into his ribs. A venom, circulating through his veins and forcing itself into his mind. </p><p>He tries not to think about the delirious probability. Of what will happen to them without her. What will become of them, now that she is gone. They were tottering between the past and the future, of what could have been and what could be. All they have is what will be. What they can do for her, but it’s starting to sound like nonsense. Like he’s trying to convince himself the rage he’s consumed with will disappear when they kill Fuu’s killer. Like he is convinced they are the same people and if they’ve changed, it was for Fuu. </p><p>She is gone and the void he’d been trying to ignore, it was staring right back at him. She was gone and it made him wonder what had it all been for? It would be inevitable for them to fall back into the place of their old selves. To lose themselves again, to forget. They would change, for the worse. They would change, fall back into place and truly endorse the lonely people they were meant to be. </p><p>Mugen thinks back to what Jin had said, about duty and how he had failed. Did he think milking himself would honor Fuu? Honor himself? The venom spikes: </p><p><em> I'm just as responsible as you</em>, Mugen wants to say. He wants to yell. </p><p>It would do him no good. His throat is becoming raw and he thinks back to the booze he’d chugged last night. He remembers the lightness settling into his chest, the burden lifting itself off their shoulders. It had made him forget about her death, about her absence for a small moment. He wish he could return to it, to that feeling. He wishes he was the person he had been before he’d met them. The vagabond who traveled alone and was not tied to any person or thing. Someone who didn’t care. Who never needed companions or warmth. </p><p>Had he ever been that person? </p><p>Their footsteps trail lighter against the dirt path and Jin, up ahead, assures towards a tree. Mugen does not admit how badly he wants to sleep or the awful sensation plaguing his gut and bones. Is he dying? </p><p>Before they pass out beneath the tree, Mugen recalls something Jin said, long ago. Something unlike him, something even Mugen knew was delicate. </p><p>
  <em> I think I've found what I was looking for all this time. I, who was always alone, found friends for the first time. You two were my first friends. </em>
</p><p>The realization juts itself into his gut, is painful enough to make his head sear and he almost feels ashamed. The realization that they are both human. It becomes a mantra, a song which beckons him to sleep. A thought which plants itself firmly into his head, will not leave and serves no purpose to fight off the ailment in his veins. </p><p>They are human. Completely raw and vulnerable. They are breakable. They are human. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>what a lateee update. i haven't been content with my writing as of late and to make matters worse, writer's block was kicking my ass. i will post the next chapter some time this week dw! thank u all for the nice comments, they really make my day u all are so sweet.</p><p>i tried to exaggerate the boys’ inner turmoil as much as i could. they’re both fighting against the idea of past and present, so hopefully that dilemma is evident and not confusing. interpret the rest as you like! again, pls forgive me for the late update, ily all. thank u for reading &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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